jiubilant

[jiubilant]

my morrowind files

[jiubilant]

second-favorite skyrim memory is watching over a friend's shoulder as she fired it up for the first time + desperately trying to give her directions to bleak falls barrow. she was trying to walk straight up the cliff face

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Whats your happiest TES gaming memory?

For me it's probably finishing my last class in spring 2012 and realizing I had THE WHOLE SUMMER free to play Skyrim.

I poured soooo much time into learning all the (then relatively new) Skyrim lore and exploring every inch of Skyrim.

Then the (brand new) Dawnguard DLC came out and I got to explore every inch of that DLC as well.

That whole summer is so vivid in my mind and almost all my memories of it are Skyrim related.

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cw: blood, violence, character death (all the First Council staples)

“Voryn,” he gasps, leaning on his spear. If he is to groan like a wounded guar in his grief, he must do it now, here, and bring a brave face back to his people; they will look for certitude in it, for the calm strength that comforts them. His wife is wise to wear a war-mask. “Voryn.”

Thrown down in the silt, with the spear in him, his councillor does three things: laughs, and chokes bloodily on the laugh, and smothers his face in his sleeve. The Hortator bears down on the spear until the death-rattle reddens the silk. A thousand times and more, he’s done this. Once a man is down, it is mercy. He twists the spearpoint free, and it is done.

“Hortator!” someone cries, and catches him.

He’s heavy, the Hortator; heavier, in all this crushed chitin. He sags from the frightened arms and thuds to one knee beside Voryn, in the silt. That’s all right. He’s not down, yet.

“Hortator.” Ineffectual hands scrabble, shaking, at the straps of his breastplate. He wonders where Alandro is. Alandro can have his armor off in minutes. “You’re hurt. That crawling beetle, that traitor—”

He’s only seen Nibens, conscious of the dignity of their carrion, cover their faces in death. Voryn’s vain enough to concern himself with such. Just watch him eat a pomegranate—with a little spoon, useless for anything else, imported from Nchardak for the purpose.

“Voryn,” he rasps, as if Voryn might get up. Sweat trickles down his face. His ears ring. Around them the spinning chamber shimmers with a heat that rolls like flame, like fever, beneath his roasting skin.

“Hortator.” It is Alandro, he realizes—Alandro, all along. He wonders why Alandro’s groping at him like a blind man, weeping. “Nerevar.”

* * *

“Nerevar, this,” says Surriwit, supercilious as ever. She’d be less fond of the man if he weren’t. “Nerevar, that. As if he did anything but die.”

Aloud, he says this, while coiling trama roots in an Urshilaku yurt. The Nerevarine almost laughs at the look on Kurapli’s face.

“You think it of no account, then,” she says, laying a forestalling hand on Kurapli’s in the soaking-trough, “that I dream of him, not the Sharmat, so long as I wear his ring?”

“Correlation is not causation.” Surriwit thumps his tail on the packed-earth floor, puffing up ash. “Perhaps you have indigestion.”

“Kur-Hansar,” says Kurapli, sharp as the dagger at her belt, “where do you find these blasphemers?”

The three are—ostensibly—weaving baskets. Kurapli is the one with cunning hands; Wit has the wit to strip and store tomorrow’s trama, grumbling at every splinter, and the Nerevarine is good for nothing but soaking the cured roots until they’re soft. She keeps at it with good cheer, with her good hand. On her finger, flashing in the water of the trough like a speck of twilight, glints the Moon-and-Star.

Pity Dagoth Ur, the ghost of Peakstar had whispered in that cave: a voice in the dark, small and drifting like the dust. He is evil, and all he puts his hand to is befouled—but he began in brightness and honor. The cause of his fall was his loyal service to you, Nerevar.

She has not dreamed of his loyal service. She’s dreamed of the death-wound he gave Nerevar, before Nerevar repaid him in kind. Three times true, her foretold arse—

“Who’s to say,” says Wit, with a douce look that seldom bodes well, “that he’s not in the ring?”

The Nerevarine grins. “Who?”

“Nerevar.”

“Nerevar is not in a bauble,” snaps Kurapli, tangling her weave. “He has come again in spirit and flesh, reborn in the Nerevarine, to lead us to victory and—and—s’wit!” She throws up her hands. “I have no words for you. Because of you, I have ruined this basket.”

“Which is more credible?” Wit snaps back, bristling. His patience for matters of prophecy is always short. “That she’s the reincarnation of a First Era warlord”—he turns, feathers afluff, to the Nerevarine—“or that a ring you found in a cave was enchanted with a famous soul, long ago, and now it’s giving you dyspepsia—”

With an exasperated cry, Kurapli splashes him with half the contents of the trough.

Wit stares at her, rigid, dripping. Their host glowers back at him. The Nerevarine looks from one to the other, lifts a brow, and leans forward to intervene—but a snort from Kurapli breaks the silence first, and then Wit’s shaking himself off, grumbling again, flicking droplets at her across the trough like a priest of the Nine who’s dipped too deep into the font.

“Harridan,” he mutters without much heat. The water must have doused it. The Nerevarine suspects she’s no closer to understanding the man than she’d been when she met him, that miserable morning in Gnaar Mok. “Ingrate.”

“Go and dry in the sun,” says Kurapli, waving him off. “Go, go. Blasphemer. Sorcerer. My Airan will bring you lunch.”

It was for setting the bones of this child, when a fall from the cliffs had broken him almost to the death, that the Ashkhan had named Wit clanfriend. The Nerevarine, named clanfriend for reasons less laudable, smiles and draws her hand from the trough.

She feels Kurapli’s eyes on her like an itch. “May I see it?”

The ring, she means. The Nerevarine holds out her dripping hand: heavy, hard, as utilitarian as the rest of her. Clean, at least, from the water.

Kurapli’s hands, raw and cracked from their labors, turn her own this way and that. The Moon-and-Star gleams in the unpretentious light of the cookfire, where the ash yams are roasting in the pot. “And it brings you dreams?”

“Or dyspepsia.”

“Stupid.” Most eyes flick in startled terror from the Nerevarine’s smiling face. Kurapli, her hands and face steady, meets her gaze and holds it: rarest of women, ruining baskets in this yurt. “What do you believe?”

She’d expected no such question. Still, she must answer. She weighs her choices: what is true, what is righteous, what this widow wants to hear.

Then she nods, satisfied. “That I’m not down, yet.”

[jiubilant]

just me being in love with my Nerevarine

[jiubilant]

sister constance the badger would have loved doom

brutal violence and flans—what else are children interested in

[jiubilant]

Solstheim Interlude 1: The Elves of House Telvanni

Since I have roughly the same amount of mainland elves left to do as there are on Solstheim, I'm going to make every other post about my Solstheim elf designs. Just for some variety!

Anyways, this is gonna be a long one, so I'm hiding the details under a cut.

Elynea Mothren

I wasn't satisfied with her original hair, so here is an updated one.

Neloth

Lotsa little tweaks on my original design, maybe not that noticeable to anyone but me.

I did also come up with two additional hairstyle options, though: bald and Morrowind (bald without a beard.)

Talvas Fathryon

I wanted to make him look young (to match his voice.)

I really like how his ears and nose turned out

Also, I wanted to give him some distinctly Dunmeri robes (with myconic prosthetic), instead of College of Winterhold castoffs.

Varona Nelas

Varona got a few more Morrowind-y cultural touches, as well as some custom robes

I've also made some robe for her replacement, though I'm not sure how to make him wear them at the moment.

Ulves Romoran

Tel Mithryn's resident chef (once you snap him out of his trance.) I gave him some proper chef's clothing as well as a scarf.)

Ildari Sarothril

I haven't decided whether or not to cover all named, unique enemies, but I do like making spooky magic baddies (not that I blame Ildari one bit.)

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I was at the laundromat. uh but like, evilly. with stickers. tbh I love it when they can peel off clean too. if there was a mistake or change it's nice not to end up with archaeological layers of labels and tape

MINE ENEMY 🍻 tonight we drink to stickers unstuck

[jiubilant]

it's not jjk related, but if you're still taking requests, I humbly request a Mephala. I just love how you draw her so much <3

she loves you more!! 🫶

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brutal violence and flans—what else are children interested in

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fuck it, i'm curious. reblog and tag with the first fictional death to ever rewrite your brain chemistry and/or make you cry like a baby. mine was ares from the underland chronicles (who, for context, was a giant bat.) to this day i will weep if i think too hard about it. okay, go.

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Contestant #82, Blarmo, has been awarded best in show at this year's scrib expo.

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Grandmaster of the Morag Tong Eno Hlaalu has a built-in self destruction button right on the front of his robes. When asked for further information Eno shared the following: ''I know it looks big and red and enticing, but please do not press it.''

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detailed instructions for how to buy an esim here

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on the subject of drama headcanons:

Vanthis is famously known for refusing to take a side in Skyrim's Civil War for reasons that would take far too long to enumerate, but manages to channel her profound dislike for both factions into a safe-ish outlet by anonymously writing chapbooks featuring thinly-veiled expies of Ulfric and Tullius having a torrid forbidden romance. she spends a not-inconsiderable amount of time workshopping plot while on the road with Teldryn, whose responses are less than enthusiastic. other than the times where he points out what would really piss them off even better.

in spite of being otherwise easy to bait, Ulfric doesn't deign to acknowledge the stories' existence and Tullius privately thinks they're hilarious in concept if not in execution. Elenwen officially disavows knowledge of the publications but is annoyed by how her counterpart's motivations and characterization seems to hinge on keeping the two protagonists from fucking and serves no other discernable narrative purpose. she's the High Emissary, dammit

Vanthis's writing style and grasp of language might charitably be described as "idiosyncratic" and subsequently Viarmo insists on editing the stories into something more A) readable and B) plausibly-deniable as having been authored by the Dragonborn. he does this out of convictions about Art and because the presence of the Thalmor Embassy and the Empire's garrison means that a cooling effect has descended on the Bards College w/r/t skalds getting to criticize the great and good. also because it's fun. he slips in a few biting bon mots and rumors about courtiers he dislikes here and there. subsequently, to the extent that anyone reads them, it's mostly Solitude insiders or horny freaks with no taste. Belethor sells the complete set.

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Dress man Nerevarine

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ocurred to me that saryoni was probably the guy to whom vivec handed the task of convincing all the temple faithful that the tribunal are saints rather than gods. if i had that job i think i would try to defenestrate myself